Veteran Notes from Spain contributor and guest blogger Gary Child, is back in Beni…

We were up and away at 3.30am to get to the airport for out 7am flight, so neither of us had very much sleep. Still, we took off on time and landed fifteen minutes early – thank you EasyJet. We came in at Terminal 2 at Alicante airport, which was a little disorientating but everything has gone swimmingly well since; we were first drop on our shared transfer and we have a cracking room at the top of the hotel Mar Blau with a south-facing corner balcony upon which I sit as I type this.

We are situated on Calle San Pedro which overlooks the Parque de Elche, a strip of shaded grass and palm trees between the promenade and the road with benches, playgrounds, fountains, and a range of gym type exercise equipment mostly occupied by Spanish pensioners laughing themselves silly. To my left is a view of the marina, to the right Playa Poniente sweeps majestically into the distance towards La Cala. This is a quiet and pleasant place.

We went through the ritual unpacking – my meagre handful of shirts and shorts and a full compliment of ‘just-in-case’ wardrobe for she who must be adored – and, all the potions and lotions having been suitably laid out, decamped for the 50 metre stroll to lunch at Antonio’s. There is surely no finer place to have lunch, sitting in the Spring sunshine. Every day is a culinary treat; today’s ‘menu’ was gulas y gambas, ternera, postre, pan y vino. A massively understated treat.

I looked up gula on Ultralingua app and found it was ‘gluttony’. As this made absolutely no sense the only was forward was to order the darned thing and hope for the best. I have extended my vocabulary using this method before with somewhat mixed levels of success bearing in mind that if it lives and breathes the Spanish will eat it. I had my first experience of eating pigs cheek and winkles (separately dished) using this technique.

It turned out that gulas was a contraction of angulas – elvers. Very nice, though Mrs C wasn’t too keen at first, she closed her eyes, took the plunge and was pleasantly surprised. The ternera (veal) was served with courgettes, aubergine and sweet pepper salsa. Postre, pan y vino was a meal in itself, crusty bread served with home made alioli, a tarta de chocolate to die for and a very presentable rosado. A far cry from the burger, chips and kiss me quick culture that Johny Vegas and the cast of the TV series would have us believe epitomises Benidorm.

After lunch, a siesta to catch up on the sleep lost in transit and later a stroll to Yago, Artisan de Dulces, 50 metres in the opposite direction. Coffee and an impossible selection of buns, cakes, confectionery and baked goods from which to chose. Mrs C always has the empanadas, I try something different every time and have never been disappointed. The newly acquired wi-fi connection has ensured my daily attendance, cyber junkie that I am.

Later, after an evening meal in the hotel, a stroll up to Plaza de la Creu at the heart of the Old Town for a G&T and to pass a pleasant hour people watching. All life passes before you on this busy corner.

And so to bed, day one completed.

More of the same or similar to follow for the next week or so, maybe some interludes on the beach weather permitting, but there’s a cool onshore breeze that precludes that at the moment.

There are those that decry Benidorm as not being part of ‘real Spain’. It is true that there is a huge machine here designed to extract the tourist Euro from the clutches of the Brits but this is mainly confined to the eastern end of the resort. The closer to the Rincon De Loix that you get the more this is evident.

Easter in Benidorm: Real Spain enough for you?
In the hotels and bars of the Playa Poniente things are more civilised, though it is true that no one has attempted to perform a matanza for my edification. Mind you, I doubt that the families with whom we shared the dining room last night would regard themselves as anything but ‘real Spain’, just ordinary folk enjoying a holiday.

To anyone who has never been here I recommend that you brush aside your preconceptions and pay Benidorm a visit. After all, now that the credit crunch has hit hard you’ve swallowed your pride, started shopping at Netto, Aldi and Lidl, and found great value for money that the snob in you wouldn’t have considered possible a year ago…

When not taking it easy in Benidorm, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

Over at our super sister site notesinspanish.com we’ve put together a free report for Spanish-learning-wine-lovers (can’t be many of those around, surely )

Get the pdf now while it’s hot!

Saludos from Madrid,

Ben

On a recent visit to Madrid my sister was amazed to see me order, drink, and actually ENJOY, a non-alcoholic beer – un sin alcohol.

“Does it actually taste nice?” she asked, adding, “I don’t think that even exists in the UK!”

I pointed out that it certainly exists, but that it’s unlikely many people would be seen dead drinking it. We ordered her one too, and her reaction went something like:

“Oh my God, it actually tastes like beer! And… it’s… really quite drinkable!” followed 5 minutes later by: “… you know, it actually feels like this beer is still going to my head a little…”

Such is the power of years of association. Beer taste = tipsy/drunk etc. On a hot day, non-alcoholic beer can still leave you feeling light-headed, but it is all, and only, in the mind.

Some sin-alcohol beers do have a trace of alcohol left (“less that 1%”), but it really is minimal. And the thing is, here in Spain, people drink it all the time without the slightest hint of shame, without for a minute thinking it might dent their macho image, or cool quota.

Personally I prefer Laiker, made by Mahou – I think it’s actually the best tasting beer in Spain!

How about you? Would you drink a ‘sin’, or would you sooner be seen dancing naked in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor?

I was wandering around Madrid’s Retiro park today, when a familiar sound faded slowly in from behind – the loud rasping crackle of a single speaker, battery-operated, hand-held radio, turned up to full volume, blaring out an evening ‘discussion’ (guests shouting at each other) program.

That’s funny I thought, the oldies usually only listen to the football on those things. One thing was clear to me though, without even having to turn round: it was a man from that generation – the generation with the portly somach, the ‘jacketigan’ (brown cardigan-jacket cross-breed), and the little battery-operated portable radio.

I stopped to let him catch up and overtake, so I could take a look and confirm what I’d already guessed – and past he went, radio clasped at chest height, as is their way, whiling away the hours until caña-time, at a favourite bar down the road.

First couple of times I tried Sobrasada, I thought it was only mildly more appetizing than sucking prawns out of brains, sorry, other way round – it’s the vino tinto coursing through my veins.

You see I just got back from the local ‘Extremeño‘, the Extremaduran bar on the corner, where they do the most fantastic ‘tostas‘ – bits of toast with marvellously delicious things on top.

This time Sobrasada (sort of mushy Chorizo) and warm Brie – that and a glass (OK 2… and a beer in the park… I’m trying to relax por dios), and uno está muy, pero MUY contento.

Can’t help thinking though, Brie being French, could this be Nuevo Cocina? Is Madrid the new culinary Cataluña? You know, inventive combinations and all that… do hope so!

Update: in retrospect wish I’d waited until April 2nd to publish this, as it may be met with some scepticism today, but people really DO do this! Besides, December 28th, ‘El dia de los inocentes’ is joke day here in Spain, not April 1st.

My Spanish wife Marina, who many of you will know from our videos and podcasts, has, like her mother and endless other Spanish people, a most alarming approach to eating prawns.

I’m talking about the prawns that are cooked as they come, and need careful peeling to reveal the, to my mind, evil tasting nugget of white flesh inside. The first maneuver in this peeling process involves pulling off the head, and while most people will discard this immediately (often straight onto the floor if standing at a bar), Marina will raise prawn-head to mouth and, with an almighty swoooooosh, suck out it’s fried little brains.

Ben: “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuchhhhh, how can you DO that?!”

Marina: “Shut up! Joder, It’s the best bit!”

OK, so clearly I can’t say I’ve tried sucking the brains out of prawns, so don’t really have a leg to stand on, but I do know this:

IT’S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN!

Prawn-brain sucking is up there with eating pig jowls, lamb brains, and anything’s testicles. It’s a psychological barrier that just isn’t going to be crossed!

Then again I used to say that about Morcilla, pigs-blood-sausages, some stuffed with rice, all rather delicious.

The question is: Would YOU suck the brains out of prawns?

Note about this post: This is a short excerpt from a new book I’m writing, that tells the story of our last few years in Spain, and covers many of the things, like this, that make Spain so Spain. To help with the writing process, and to be first to find out when the book is ready, sign up for our newsletter in the top right-hand corner of this page.